― to the Sharp-faced Boy
Ryan’s house, when I was sick
1.
The light from your cigarette
looks good on you,
but I’m not sorry when you put it out.
It is too cold for smoking
and the stench enters my lungs
like a mad dog barking.

You give me blankets and a choice
Soul Caliber or a movie –
which movie? Start ‘er up
and settle down in the cold room.
But your smile and your eyes are friendly
and those are more than enough reasons to stay.
2.
I’m sorry for being somewhat worried
every time you open your mouth,
but your clever head has a habit
of spewing boiling water at me.
How many times have I had to look for aloe
after a conversation with you?

But I have missed this person who
talks and laughs and listens with an
air of interest. We’ll stay away from
God, though. Dangerous ground I wish
I were brave enough to attempt. Wrap
your smarts around something else, please.

Movies and music and books – you
are avid and opinionated (that O’Neal coming through) – spark a
debate littered with swapped insults and mock offense.
I will have to learn better slurs
if I want to keep up with you – your mind
leaps ahead of mine like a loosed kite.

 

3.
Did you start that fire to show me that
you care? That’s what I’m thinking, but you
never say it, and these little gestures are
almost too sporadic for hope. But you let me borrow
your movies and ask before you smoke in
my car – is this a brother’s way of saying

“I love you”? Well, in any case, come over here
and give me a hug. Smart boy that can’t keep your
brains to yourself and dotes more on a cat than on
any person I know. Don’t look at me like that –
stand up straight, and try to remember,
however sappy it may be, I love you.

—–

This is a poem I wrote a couple years ago for a poetry workshop at USM. Found it tonight going through some old files. This was the first draft, and I’m pretty sure there’s a rewrite floating around somewhere. Didn’t look for it, though.

I should work on this poem again. I mean, I’m one of those horrible (and very occasional) poets that gets stupidly attached to their first drafts, and don’t ever try very hard to edit/rewrite. And changes I do make tend toward the superficial – a word here, a word there. Rarely anything of substance. Bad Charity.

But even I can see that this poem has some problems – awkward lines, jarring sounds, super sappiness. Definitely gotta cut back on the sappy.

Advertisements

The Flaming Rut – “Worst Bad Poem” Sigma Tau Delta National Convention 2010

The Flaming Rut

the road is a winding wheel

rolling, rolling along

carrying me to and fro

to

and

fro

until the ruts made

by my dragging feet –

listless, heedless of

rocks and stones –

have become deep enough

to reflect the depth

of my pain

not the pain of

mind

or

body

but of the

heart

and

soul

and the pain it stabs hard

slices me open

again

and

again

until the raw red wound

throbs, radiating pain

outward

like a stubbed toe

my stubbed toes

catching the jagged edges

of exposed granite

– for I am in New Hampshire

where the sea breezes kiss

the granite cliffs, made

love to the old Man in the Mountain

before he

fell

oh his fall was terrible

shaking the verdant hills

and restless pines

until they

wept

salty green tears

like mine, though

my tears are not tinged

with the color of life

instead, they are the color of

death

and

rot

and they are filling the ruts

as I think of you

as I

curse

and

cry

for you!

for you

who burned my heart

kerosene-lover

singeing my love away

inch

by

inch

until the last bit of it

falls

into the lighter-fluid

tear filled ruts

igniting

engulfing me in an

everlasting

soul-burning

immortal

flame